


altercations with the devil

by Brishen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, No Plot, character exploration basically, idk what this is honestly its based off a roleplay i had with someone several years ago, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 02:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brishen/pseuds/Brishen
Summary: a really long one-shot between the world's only consulting criminal and his mad tiger on a leash.





	altercations with the devil

**Author's Note:**

> regular text is jim's pov, bold is sebastian
> 
> this really honestly has no plot i apologize but i love these maniac bastards

**Sebastian took a long draw from his cigarette as he stood on the balcony, skin numb with the December night air. He stared at the stars, the sky as distant and cold as the eyes he tried to keep his mind off of. His boss, hisfucking sociopath, his ring-leader, with a smile like a switchblade and the voice of the devil himself. Seb couldn’t help but be attracted to him. He knew it was crazy, because Jim would never reciprocate, even if he wanted to.**

**It wasn’t him.**

**Jim was charming, calculating and crazy.**

**Seb was military, proud and dependable, and more or less neurologically sound - at least, more so than some.**

**They didn’t match, but the Colonel found himself wanting to be more than just an employee, more than a pair of hands that held a gun steady, even if it was just being a friend. Did Jim have friends? Maybe he had Jim all wrong - maybe he could feel affection. He was human, after all.**

**Even the Devil had love in him, once.**

 

Many people doubted Jim was human – that was nothing new. 

In their final moments, or when he was feeling particularly irritated, up to the point where he took on some of the dirty work himself, they would sob and ask whether he was the Devil, whether he had ever been born to a mother and had known a childhood and ohgodhavemercypleasepleasehavemer—and Jim would smile a slit-throat smile, and break another one of their fingers. 

What was unusual was for him to find himself stepping close to another person and not being  _ asked _ whether he was the Devil. Sebastian already knew - and most delicious of all, he didn’t care. The night air was frigid, and it made everything sharper, awakening his senses like a slap to the face. It would’ve been nice, had the cigarette smoke not filled his nostrils, and for a moment Jim was torn between the need for a cigarette and the utter revulsion of having the smell cling to him. So instead, he merely stepped to Sebastian’s side, gaze sliding down to the streets below.

It was a long way to go; a sure way to break ones’ neck.

“…Shall we jump?” he drawled, lazily, mockingly perhaps, with his gaze still downcast and fingers resting on the railings.

**Sebastian knew rationally that Moriarty was human. He had emotions, and soft thoughts in the night when he was feeling a certain kind of romantic. He just kept them so tightly locked inside no one saw them. Sometimes, however, they slipped through the cracks.**

**Seb had yet to see that happen, but he imagined it must be true. He turned his head to look at Jim - dark suit, dark hair; fitting for a dark character such as him. It didn’t bother Sebastian that Jim was the way he was - he was used to Jim’s nature by now. The issue was accepting it - becoming comfortable with the way his heart jumped with equal parts affectionate nerves and understandable fear any time Jim was near him, sucking all the light out of the room with his void-like eyes.**

**“Seems an interesting way to end a life,” Sebastian replied, his cockney accent contrasting with Jim’s smooth Dublin lilt, “though perhaps not tonight,” he added, in case Jim got any ideas. Sebastian had learned early on that Jim was as unpredictable as a bomb; calm and collected one moment, and totally enraged the next.**

Jim’s gaze remained fixed on the movements below for a long moment, watching the agitation of life unfold beneath the yellow glow of the artificial lights illuminating the boulevard. What time was it?…It didn’t matter, not really; London, like all great cities, never fully shut her eyes, just kept going and going, slaving away - but nothing really changed. It was the same equation, the same formula all over again, a measure of two times two makes four. 

Irritably predictable.

People were scurrying down the streets like insects (from here it was easy to imagine they were), rushing to accomplish worthless self-set goals in their worthless little lives, only ending up in the same old dance of eat-sleep-fuck-die. Revulsion crept up in his throat, and Jim yanked his attention from the streets to the man beside him. His eyes were expressionless, polished stones, reflecting none of his thoughts. His face was, for once, calm and empty of cruel mocking. 

“Why not? It seems a perfect night to die,” he chuckled, and there it was again, the cruelty just around the edges, the ridicule, the dramatics that had a touch too much flourish to be genuine.

“Sebastian, what if I  _ ordered _ you to jump?”

**Sebastian took another long drag from his cigarette, reveling in the heavy feeling that filled his lungs. He exhaled through his nose, smoke curling out of his nostrils like a petulant dragon. He looked out over the rooftops instead of at Jim. Sebastian was used to high vantage points - he did most of his best work at the top floors of empty buildings.**

**Sebastian liked the quiet his job brought him, on occasion. The ringing-in-your-ears kind of silence. It helped him think, kept the earth from spinning too fast. It was a silence Sebastian was hooked on, the moment of complete stillness before you pulled the trigger, whole body tensed, the world tensed with it. The moment of silence when a life is ended by a single shot to the head and they crumple to the earth; they had no chance. Afterward, Sebastian would finally let out his breath, pack up his things, and light a cigarette, all the noise of people and the bustling city rushing back to his ears deafeningly, the roar of life crashing like the ocean around him.**

**Sometimes he wished he didn’t like it; the smell of gunpowder, the smooth shell of a bullet in between his fingers, the warmth of his gun against his chest, someone’s _life_ in his hands, and eventually, their blood. But he did. He loved it.**

**“There’s so much left for me to do in the world. As much as I’d enjoy dying, I don’t think it would be necessary; pointless, even. You might say it’s _boring_ ,” he added an emphasis on the vowel, replicating Jim’s accent.**

 

It was boring and pointless. Touché, Moran. Yet it really wouldn’t take much for Jim to jump into the void, if the whim took him. The lack of a life must be as much of a miracle as the possession of one, (although, judging by how easy it was to  _ end _ a life, one should not be too quick about judging these things…)

There comes a point where really, you realize that nihilism was right all along (there is no point), but a starry-night suicide was so completely  _ ordinary _ , so very  _ pointless, _ (how very right you are, my dear Sebastian, how very true), that no, perhaps Jim would never consider it at all. The ridiculousness of talking to himself in circles amused him, so he laughed softly, the hilarity tugging at the corner of his mouth into a half-mocking, half-honest smile (and really, it was only because he was in a mood, nothing else; Jim did not quite do genuine smiles unless he was pretending, and this was as close as it ever got, as close as anyone ever got to seeing one, and really, it was only because this was  _ Sebastian _ ).

The whole seemed terribly domestic, despite the topic of discuss.  Not really a genuine concern; fillers for an otherwise silent mood. Like most of Jim Moriarty’s conversations, the meanings were mostly found between the lines (I want to hear of your loyalty. I want to hear you answer just right and  _ mean it _ ). 

…Domestic. He was smiling. Here, now. Why? He couldn’t put his finger on why the factor of Sebastian came into play, or why it was different from any others. He supposed he was fond of it, at least, fonder than most other things. Peculiar. Bony fingers reached out and plucked the cigarette from Sebastian’s hold, bringing it to his own lips. If Sebastian minded sharing, Jim didn’t care. He always took what he wanted, one way or another.

“All of its rather pointless; all of it is. What then? Shall we drink ourselves silly, like teenagers? Shall we push someone down the stairs? Shall we have a heart-to-heart conversation about our woes, darling?” he laughed. It was all ridiculous. Shall we do nothing at all and be calm and quiet as if this was us?

James Moriarty was, apparently, in a good mood after all.

**Sebastian was surprised, but pleased. He rarely heard Jim laugh (unless it was over someone’s dead and mangled body), let alone saw him smile. It was a nice sound, though still unsettling. It made the hairs on the back of Seb’s neck stand on end.**

**There was no denying it - Jim made people feel nervous, whether it was intentional or not. Seb had become more comfortable talking to him, nonetheless. Not that they had talked much in the first year or two of Seb’s employment - Jim usually had Seb out in the field. This year, though, he noticed that Jim had been sending him out less and less, as though he needed him close, as though he was preparing for something and needed to take extra precautions. Seb might be his sniper, but he was his bodyguard first.**

**Maybe Sebastian was imagining it. But it was a soft daydream he liked to keep close to his heart, anyway - that Jim wanted him to be close beyond the need for physical safety.**

**He felt a bit indignant as Jim took his cigarette away, but he didn’t complain.**

**“I like the idea of a drink." A pause. "We could do something no one would expect. Kidnapping someone, playing with a bit of hydrochloric acid. I’ve discovered ears are very sensitive…” he trailed off, his mind supplying unhelpfully phantom imaginings of Jim’s teeth scraping over his ear lobe.**

**“Or we could push someone down the stairs, for shits and giggles,” he finished, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.**

 

The last suggestion did make him giggle, in a completely manic fashion – the joy of seeing someone hurt for the fuck of it, hurt because they were there at the wrong time and place, and it wasn’t the fact that they were  _ hurt _ that was amusing… but the fact that it was so completely random, non-anticipated, because  _ oh _ , who thought they were going to be smashing their skull later that day, who ever thought they would be murdered – gratuitously and without purpose – as they kissed their wives and kids goodbye in the morning?

It was the absurdity of it that amused Jim and it was the absurdity of it that prevented it from being a genuinely  _ nice _ feeling. 

“I don’t see why not. I am rather  _ miffed _ at Ainsley. He did not pick up my McQueens from dry-cleaning this morning. Useless. Be a dear and find someone to break his kneecaps, will you? If the message does not come across, we’ll try the acid,” he snickered, took another slow drag from the cigarette, and exhaled in Sebastian’s face. A bit of a dick move, but it was interesting to watch the face behind the veil of smoke. Sharp features, broad figure, but his eyes (however cold they seemed at first glance), betrayed a spark of human warmth that Jim’s did not.

There was bound to be a bottle (or three) somewhere. 

“For now, you might as well get us a drink. Not something sugary, or I’m pouring it on your head.”

It was a genuine threat, despite being childish.

In a sharp gesture, he curled his bony fingers around that wrist and brought the fag to his lips, took a hit, and dropped it, leaving Sebastian with the inconvenience of discarding the filter. Just for show, really, painfully obvious. Amuse himself where he could. Because in the next turn, he merely leaned forward, fingers laced together, lips pulling thin.

“I like it on the rocks. Thank you and good boy, off you go.”

**Sebastian was startled when Jim grabbed his wrist; for a split moment, he thought he was going to snap it. Which was ridiculous because Sebastian was nearly double Jim’s weight and his wrist, corded with thick muscle, was at least an inch wider. But... Jim’s fingers were warm, and just a touch too tight to be comfortable. Sebastian suppressed a shiver, and blamed the goosebumps that rose along his spine on the brisk wind that accompanied being on the roof at night.**

**With a huff, he tapped his cigarette on the side of the building before letting it drop and turning to go inside. He slid back the glass door and went about fixing them both their drinks (one with ice, one without), and watched as the dark amber liquid poured over the cold cubes. He briefly admired the back of the other man as he slipped back outside, a trite display of interest that he usually kept contained, before shaking his head to clear his mind and placing the drink next to Jim’s elbow. He took a sip of his own whiskey, drawing in a breath through his teeth as the liquid seared his throat.**

**“Burns like a bitch, dunnit? In a good way, though.”**

Sending your best sniper (your best man, really, your right hand, and ha, that was an amusing jest, because Jim had no qualms about calling Sebastian Moran his ‘right hand’. After all, he was left handed. Whatever could he need a right for? Naughty...) on a mission to find you a drink was among the most absurd things Jim had done in the past 24 hours, but someone had to do it, and he did not particularly fancy doing it himself (like most of his work; pulling the strings, watching them dance – that was amusing, yet the tediousness of legwork would leave him smashing his skull in).

He heard Sebastian before the door slid open – the vague footsteps seemed more like a figment of his own imagination, dulled both by a barrier of glass and the noise of the city, even at this hour – and he surprised himself with finding them familiar. Otherwise, he might’ve turned on him with the cold barrel of a gun jabbed under the soft underside of his jaw. The innocent-looking Jim nurtured within himself was just a deception.

Did he really seem that harmless to ordinary people? That dull?

He took the glass with a soft hum, the sound as much as an actual ‘thank-you’ as it got with him, and tilted it, watching the ochre liquid swirl and lick up the walls. Some would say it’s a crime to dilute your whiskey and not drink it flat-out, but Jim rather preferred it this way, just slightly, to relieve the imminent burn. Funny, isn’t it? You’d think he drank it straight, straight from the bottle, possibly without any after effects. In truth, he could feel pleasantly buzzed from just a couple of sips. 

(Jim doesn’t finish his drinks for a reason).

“I liked your work yesterday,” he said, suddenly, out of the blue because that’s what he does, and bloody hell that was almost a genuine compliment (because he felt like it, nothing more; it’s always nice to keep people on edge, never knowing what to expect).

“I liked his expression. Some men just know how to die with style, you know?” he giggled, taking another sip.

**Seb enjoyed being close to Jim – in physical proximity, at least. Emotionally, he had enough common sense to still be wary of him. But that’s just common sense, to be wary of James Moriarty. He enjoyed the fact that Jim trusted him enough, found him loyal enough, to be considered his best agent. Seb _knew_ he was. He had become accustomed to reading people’s emotions, and he felt that most of Jim’s conversations with him were sincere; albeit sarcastic and more often than not, rude. Still, though you could admire a shark and swim alongside of it peacefully, it was best not to thrash wildly while in the presence of one. Blood in the water and all that.**

**Naturally, Seb didn’t usually care what other people thought of him – as if he met anyone that he didn’t later kill – but he liked to think of himself as being able to take constructive criticism. So, he was rather surprised when Jim commented on his work; he had only received praise from him when they first met – when Seb started working for him. Jim complimented him on his extensive resume and his excellent marksmanship.**

**It made him feel surprisingly bashful, and almost warm. He was used to not feeling anything other than exasperated fondness for Jim’s more eccentric ideas and the occasional tick of annoyance at being sent out at god-knows-what-time-in-the-morning to “take care of” another client who was late with their follow up. Most other emotions had been deemed unnecessary, so that he didn’t compromise his job. A bit of mold could ruin the whole fruit. With the exception of Jim, Sebastian never really felt much anymore. It was just… empty. But in his own brutal, earth-shaking way, Jim had a way of making Seb feel. Feel alive, almost as much as the sound of a machine gun did. Fucking walking cliche, he was.**

**He took another sip of his whiskey before replying, “Thanks, I think.” He let out a soft huff of amusement. “It’s like they want to show us they can die with dignity… like we care. But it’s fun to see them show off.”**

 

This shitty thing really did burn his throat; there was a fine balance between taking the edge off and absolutely watery, so he made due, but for a moment Jim became completely absorbed in glaring at the drink as if it had murdered his firstborn. He didn't deign to reply to Sebastian's first comment - the bastard already knew it burned.

It was also the moment Sebastian had chosen to speak, something about dignity and caring that Jim didn't quite get. And, if he was truthful with himself… he often was, brutally so, because how could one not be? Why would you show mercy to yourself, of all people? He was lovely, completely lovely, he… heh.

Bullshit. Jim had tried to categorize emotions, once. Tried to express them as mathematical formulas that he could comprehend, but they had slipped through his fingers. Emotions were chaos; Jim was chaos, too, but of a different sort… Ah, where was he?

If he was truthful with himself, he didn’t really care about the words. Not much. So he didn’t offer any more. Instead, he turned around, leaning his weight back, turning his back to the street, and let his gaze linger on Sebastian. Unwavering and unblinking, he fixed him silently, with a steady, unreadable gaze, and continued to do so throughout various small sips of (increasingly more bland tasting) whiskey.

 

**Jim’s eyes were a starless night; distant, fathomless, and yet still so close to home. Almost familiar.**

**Sebastian tried not to stare back too often; he might take it as a challenge, though Sebastian was hardly the type of person to back down from one. Still, now was not the time to try to assert his dominance. He kept his gaze out across the rooftops, or down to the street below, but every once and awhile he would glance at the other man, who was seemingly transfixed on his face.**

**Seb was not a self-conscious man. He knew he was a physically attractive man. The only thing that marred his otherwise handsome face was the long, deep scar that ran from the top of his right eyebrow to his jawline. He remembered enjoying the sensation, but more so enjoyed the memory of thinking _what a way to go, mauled by my own namesake_. The excitement continued with the red hot hurt that it started out as, rippling down his face and through his body and melding into a white, searing burn and then terrible, black, aching, bleeding _pain._ Everything was numb after the initial wound. He was cleaned up and the flesh sewn together, and a few weeks later the stitches were taken out and Seb was left with a story to tell anyone who would listen and a white scar, leaving him gloriously marred.**

**Still, being under the fathomless scrutiny of one James Moriarty was enough to make anyone nervous, to wonder _is there something he's seeing that i'm not?_**

**He shook his head, drinking his whiskey and savoring the burning sensation that faded quickly.**

Nothing is so sad as a beautiful past; it hardly taught you anything but to feel the whiplash of pain sharper, harder, each time it came, because in this ugly and predictable world everyone was whip-lashed. One way or another, and the method always varied. For Jim, it was boredom, the state of mental agitation that dug his claws into his brain and pulled him down into the foggy pits of his own mind, where the monsters lurked, and the restlessness that sometimes made it impossible to sleep and made him numb to the simple pleasure of enjoying his food; pair it with an emotional lethargy – a laziness in feeling – and it was a recipe for disaster. 

It must be nice to be simple and want simple things and have your mind dulled to how small and bland and stupid this world really is. Being too conscious of oneself and of reality might be a curse. But he was lovely; perfectly lovely. 

Jim’s thoughts were distracted back to the present, however, and he put himself in the unfortunate position of reading the lines in Sebastian Moran’s face as if they were the pages of a book. Read him line by line, figure out what makes him tick, what he’s thinking of right then. Icy eyes, a strong nose (broken more than once), ridiculous cheekbones accented by dark blonde scruff. A single diamond stud in his left ear. That was new. Jim wanted to rip it out, but suppressed the urge by crunching on a piece of ice.

Doesn’t really matter and he’d probably get sick of the game, bored to tears in just a few moments… but why not? Sebastian was a normal person after all; less so than most, but still with that distinct stench of mundane, of ordinary people wanting ordinary things in their ordinary lives.

It takes another six and a half minutes for Jim to ask,

“What do you want, Sebastian? Money? A pony? World Peace? Purpose?  Confetti and a tutu? Amuse me, I’m bored.”

It’s an open question, but only the first one matters.

**Sebastian was far from weak -- at least, physically. Emotionally? Well, as much as he tried to hide it, he was still human, and quite obviously to anyone with any sense of psychology, was, for lack of a better word, emotionally fucked up. But, that’s beside the point. Sebastian Moran was a very prideful bastard with a very high opinion of himself. Not necessarily his actions, but the fact that he knew he was needed, that he was good at what he did and that he knew he was wanted by many people -- they paid attention to him. They paid attention to the shadow that constantly dogged Jim Moriarty, criminal extraordinaire. Above all, Sebastian wanted, needed, craved respect – from his fellow underground criminals, to the lower agents that worked for Jim, from Jim himself. His job was based entirely in the shadows and dark alleys and doing the dirty grunt work. It was gratifying to at least be recognized he was the best at what he was doing.**

**However, for all Sebastian’s confidence and charm and bravado when he was working, in his own dutiful way, he knew when to be humble. He _did_ work for a criminal with a ticking bomb for a temper, after all. He followed his orders dutifully and efficiently. He couldn’t help it - and there was nothing Jim enjoyed more than pushing Sebastian to the limits of his loyalty. **

**He looked down at the ground again, considering his answer. What did he want? He wanted someone to depend on him; someone who relied on him for their safety. Maybe that’s why he’d stuck around with Jim so long - the man trusted him with his _life_. Jim Moriarty, whose brilliant brain was more valuable than any long lost treasure or priceless jewel, trusted ex-Colonel ‘The Tiger’ Moran with his well being. That in itself was humbling in a way that wasn’t at all shameful. At least, in the way Sebastian was expecting. **

**“A blowjob,” he said dryly, attempting to get another laugh out of Jim. He liked the sound of it, as fake as it probably was. He drained the rest of his glass and set his eyes on the sky, decorated with the single blinding spotlight of the moon in the otherwise blank void.**

Rely upon. How had he come to rely upon him, to any degree? 

Because Jim did rely on Sebastian; he relied on him for a clean job, for someone to show up at the snap of his fingers, for breaking kneecaps and retrieving alcoholic beverages and simply  _ being _ there so Jim could stare at him and try to puzzle out how human emotions worked beyond blatant chemistry and electrophysiology of channel conductance, from proteins to gene translation. 

The answer takes him by surprise. His lips part comically, a perfect o-shape and gleeful delight; faux amazement (just a touch genuine as he oooh’s at the night sky). Nice one.

“Don’t bring whores into my flats, darling,” he snickered.

**Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose, composing his thoughts.  He shifted his position so both his legs dangled off the edge of the building and wiggled his toes absentmindedly inside his perfectly polished shoes. Old military habits die hard. Very, very hard. He looked down at his glass and briefly considered chucking it as far as he could, just to hear the tinkling shatter and the diamond glitter it would produce on the street below. He resisted.**

**Though he may not seem like it at first glance, or at any time afterward, Sebastian was a sensual person. He liked art, and beautiful things, and all the other basic human comforts like Earl Grey on rainy mornings and fleece-lined jackets and good Russian literature. He liked food and sex and a good nights sleep, though it was rare that he got any of those things on a consistent basis. Yes, the ex-military-Colonel -turned-sniper-for-a-criminal-mastermind found solace in Dostoevsky and sleeping in late, wrapped in his favorite flannel blanket. The world he dealt with outside was hard enough - it was a small comfort to keep his personal life as normal and, well, _domestic_ as he could. **

**Of course, there was the other sensual part of him that enjoyed the taste and smell of blood, perhaps a little _too_ much -- enjoyed the slick slide of it between his fingers, how it looked splattered across his skin when he looked in the mirror. The sensual part of his nature that was pure animal instinct, the desire to sink his teeth into something soft and shake it until it went limp in his mouth. That part of himself he allowed to come out only in Jim’s presence, under his direct orders. Otherwise, he kept his more base urges under tight check.**

**He wondered what art Jim liked, whether he would take Sebastian to a museum, on a whim, and show him his favorite pieces. He wondered what tea he would want in the morning.**

**“Who said it would be a whore?” Moran inquired, scoffing, as if the idea was simply below him, but in reality only suggested that he obviously could pick anyone up from a bar and have his way with them.**

 

“Who else would?”

(Who else would do it for you) or (Who else did you have in mind?) Pick your poison.

It wasn’t as if Sebastian had time for a stable relationship; it was also quite debatable whether or not Jim would allow such an entanglement. Quite debatable indeed.

The retort was easy, albeit the topic was completely unusual for the pair of them. It was simply not the kind of conversation that one was prone to find themselves in, between orders and meetings and the quick disposal of a target or the completion of a contract. It was all terribly familiar, and the familiarity of it almost, but not quite, made Jim feel ill to his stomach. 

Almost being a keyword, a detail. But, as always, everything was in the details, and he was firmly convinced that is was so. 

Jim snickered again, and took a slow, slow sip. (This time, he finished the drink.)

**“Touché," Moran replied, "but one can only hope," he added with a melodramatic sigh, pulling another cigarette out of the inside pocket of his black suit jacket. He stuck it in the corner of his mouth, taking a relieved pull as he lit it and blew smoke out of the other side of his mouth, the grey cloud quickly disappearing in the cold wind.**

**Truth be told, though Seb was very firmly bisexual and had no preference of either gender, the idea of being sucked off by a strange girl was not in the least bit appealing. In addition, the thought of paying her for the deed seemed extremely demeaning, both to himself and the unfortunate woman. For all his flaws, Moran paid respect where respect was due, and unless it was someone he was supposed to kill, Moran stuck to a strict moral code. That included respecting women of all backgrounds. Moran respected the work, just didn’t feel right asking for services himself.**

**He watched his boss with narrowed eyes as he finished his drink, half expecting him to spit it back in his face. That would be something Jim would find mildly amusing. Maybe he would push him off the ledge. Seb seriously doubted it, but he wouldn't put it past the man. Still, he didn't move from his position on the ledge, long legs swinging slightly in the breeze.**

Jim tilted his head, swaying from side to side in a languid, lazy manner, as if he was considering a problem, the slow movement almost reptilian; the world tilted off its axis at an odd little angle that did not quite correspond to the gesture. Just enough to feel not-quite-right, a touch out-of-sync, where he could not quite rely on his senses as much as he usually did, but could certainly still rely on his mind (nothing less of being  _ knocked out cold _  would do that, darling). 

He set the glass by the edge, half-turning so he could run a finger over the rim. Smooth. A perfect circle. The crystal chimed as he tapped it, so softly, an enchanting little sound; and then he merely slapped it off the edge, carelessly and without regard, turning in a sharp movement to fix his attention back on Sebastian. The intensity of the gaze did not faze him (eyes of a tiger and teeth just as sharp; that was what Sebastian Moran was), but it gave birth to an intense scrutiny of his own, that was prolonged for another minute. 

Whether Jim could read minds or had bothered himself with observing his sniper’s preferences was irrelevant; he seemed either blissfully unaware or couldn’t be bothered to care, because it was just one of those ordinary things that he did not give a damn about. His expression slipped from scrutiny to taunting to curious and back again, as if he hadn’t quite decided whether he wanted to be amused by this conversation, intrigued by it, or simply wanted to skin Sebastian just to see what the contours of his skull may look like without all of his flesh.  

 “Is _  that _  what makes you sleep at night? Hope?” It’s oddly gentle. Not because the tone was surprisingly low and Jim’s voice was oddly lulling. No; but because the words were not a razor-sharp blade straight through flesh. They were not made to cut, and that was almost peculiar in its’ own right. It was a mere jab; and a weak one, too, because Jim couldn’t be bothered to care. They say the calm before the storm is always eerie; tomorrow, then, there would be hell to pay, white-hot and merciless, to make up for the amiability of this night.

 

**Sebastian watched in mild interest as the glass dropped, as if in slow motion, and shattered on the pavement below with a soft noise, a huge raindrop splattering on the ground. The broken shards twinkled in the dim orange light of the streetlamps below. He was used to Jim’s erratic behavior by now - at this point, he was only amused by it, though still anticipating the day those surprisingly strong hands would wrap around his throat instead of the glass, perhaps also tossing him over the edge.**

**He turned his attention back to Jim, poised like a snake with his eyes like venom.**

**Sebastian was a direct, simple man. He followed orders, looked people in the eye when speaking to them, and did his best not to act like a dumbass and get shot. But whether Seb liked it or not, Jim intimidated him - making eye contact with this man was enough to unsettle him, though rationally he knew he could pin the other man down in a matter of seconds. In addition to the strange, unsettling feeling Sebastian felt in his gut, the unusual notion struck him that Jim was one of the few people who held no fear of Sebastian and his deadly demeanor.**

**Sebastian was a killer, well-trained and even more terrifyingly, liked what he did. And yet Jim had no problem with Sebastian’s peculiar predilection to blood and guns or his occupation, present or otherwise. He treated Sebastian differently. Of course, there was the relationship between them drawn in stark, black and white text that stated i'm-your-boss-you're-below-me-you-do-what-I-say -- but there was also no judgement of his character. Mild indifference, almost. Maybe even the tiniest bit of fondness, as one would feel for a wild animal they often see prowling in the treeline outside their house.**

**"Hope is for children -- I like to consider myself of sound enough mind to not delude myself with shite like that," Sebastian confessed. Sebastian shivered imperceptibly, though perhaps it was just the cold wind cutting through his jacket.**

Why should it bother him?  _  When I tell you to jump, your job consists of not asking ‘how high’, but ‘from which building’.  _ He had known from the start, known what this man was; had sought him out  _ for  _ it, not  _ in spite  _ of it. But this was easy, so easy. The real question was: would he be scared, if he landed on the wrong side of Moran’s gun? Would he? (Is there even an answer, to this question? Jim is an agent of chaos if there ever was one).

His eyes flashed at the thought, something showing in his eyes and it’s there then gone again, like a figment of imagination. Jim’s fingers rose to dance lightly at the folded edge of Sebastian’s jacket, light and dangerously slow (extremes are known to topple off into each other, and Jim Moriarty's moods tangle together to the point that one extreme belies an inclination for the other).

“Ah. Should I  _ fix _  it for  _ you _ , my dear?”  His tone was a purr, tongue sliding against his lower lip and leaving a slit-throat smile in its wake. It is a threat if there ever was one, the cruelty almost palpable, lingering at the edges. And yet… it was horribly playful, horribly well-meaning, as if perhaps the sentiment was real and the delivery wrong (or vice-versa); one of them  _ must  _ be a lie. Which one?  _ (Do you like games, Sebastian?) _

**Fear is powerful - as a motivator and as a means of control. But it can be tamed, if you push yourself enough. That was something Sebastian was good at. Pushing the limits until something snapped. Several things had already snapped inside Sebastian Moran, though nothing vital, to his knowledge.**

**Unless the thing you were pushing was Jim; if you pushed him, pulled him, even rubbed him the wrong way, you could be sure he would push back. _Hard._ And it could result in your imminent demise -- a slow, excruciatingly painful death. Seb was rash, and had an ego big enough to rival the size of the Eye, but had enough self-preservation skills to keep his smart-arse reply to himself.**

**He watched the clever tongue run its course along the thin lip, and something red-hot curled its fiery tail around his lower abdomen. Lust, disgust, fear flashed through his chest.**

**He raised one eyebrow, "It's my job to fix things for _you_ , Boss. Don't worry about it," he said, glancing down at the hand on his jacket, his pulse suddenly pounding. Damn hormones. Get it together, Colonel.**

 

_ Dear Jim. Please, will you fix it for me...   _

(Our business is solving people's problems; murder for cash. What a catchy little phrase to have on a business-card. ...Should print a few, just for giggles.)

Oh Sebastian. That reply. Jim's finger ran the course of the seams for several centimeters, a perfectly cut line that descended at a perfect vertical. That reply was textbook perfect. Had the man hesitated for a single second in his sentence, Jim's eyes might have drifted upward and away from the textile and then-- As things stood, they remained riveted on the contrast of his white hand against the dark background. 

"Beautiful. Nailed it, my dear. Ten out of ten. A+. A pass with flying colours. Daddy's so proud of you. Such a good answer," Jim cooed in reply, the smile stretching on his face and never reaching his eyes. He patted at the jacket once, then twice, gentle and nice and if it wouldn't have been too troublesome, he might have reached up and actually patted Sebastian on the cheek, like one would do an obedient dog. Such a good boy. So well trained. Knew its place so well and never crossed the boundaries. You're tamed and I'm--. 

In a snap, Jim's hand gathered into a fist and tightened into the material, yanking at it with unexpected vehemence, like the snap of an elastic that had been pulled too taut. "Bloody predictable. I said don't bore me, other people do that well enough, Moran, and if you start, I will personally see to it that you never have the opportunity to bore me again."

A smile, and Jim's hand retracted, smoothing over the textile, gentle-gentle, there we go, all proper again. (Before turning on his heel to leave, his gaze drifted to the second fag that Sebastian had light and held onto-- and he snickered). "...And no need to burn yourself."

**Sebastian watched with a blank expression as that pale hand ascended the seam of his jacket, though his heart was pounding too fast for him to kid himself, even if he could keep the way Jim affected him from showing on his face. He watched the slow, reptilian smile that crept its way onto Jim's own face, though his eyes were as void as ever.**

**His heart slowed a bit as he heard the silky tone of voice and frowned, lulling him into a false sense of security, his body tensing as the hand patted his body, just before- oh yes, of course. And… his cigarette, which he had taken out of his mouth to hold between his thumb and middle finger, had shifted and was now pushing into the skin of his thumb. He hissed, shaking the damn thing out of his hand and stamping it out under his heel.**

**He let out a shaky breath and glared at the other man. It was strange, really, for Sebastian to be so vulnerable like that. Well, not entirely. But to have let his walls down so easily, and to have snapped them back up just as quickly. Of course, the threat Jim posed was real, very real, but Sebastian could've picked up the man and thrown him over the side of the building if he had wanted to.**

 

“You’re right, however~” Singsong. Jim’s voice trailed behind him like smoke, dancing through the air silkily. One has to wonder if, on his best days, Jim Moriarty is contradictory for the sole purpose of  _ being contradictory _ . The answer had been perfect; between the two of them. It was  _ Sebastian’s _ job to take care of  _ Jim _ . And ahh, there it was. Wording, semantics. Sebastian didn’t take care of Jim in the domestic, regular sense. That would be absurd. The last thing Jim was, or ever would be, is domestic. And yet.

There were many ‘yet’s between them.

And there is no longer a reality after a single one, except that of your own mind (he isn’t certain if Sebastian knows of this; he also doesn’t care). It would simply not do if they were both knocked out cold.  _ Your purpose is also to ensure that, as you make them dance, no harm ever comes to /me/. _

“Inside.” Which is a compliment on its own right, considering the implications that Moran isn’t  _ really  _ boring the shit out of him. He  _ rarely  _ does, thankfully. Otherwise, he would be shoes. Or a rug. Or a hat.  Jim’s heels clicked against the floor as he walked to the door. Opened it. And slipped inside. He was (not frozen but) cold, but in spite of it, slim fingers still worked efficiently to unbutton the tailored jacket (discarded on a chair without as much as a second glance). He could not smell the lingering stench of tobacco, not really (one’s sense of smell becomes numb to a persistent odor in a matter of minutes, after all), but he knew the suit would have to be dry-cleaned. Only Jim’s dramatics required it, in truth, but he was a man who could afford his flourishes.

“A little help.” Sebastian Moran: personal bodyguard, full-time executioner, part-time valet. Like a petulant child –it is so plainly exaggerated and intentional that he does not even bother to hide it; all of this a charade (and his eyes belied the movements; expressionless and  _ intent _ )--  Jim held up a wrist. Cufflinks.


End file.
